Bad Luck Charm
by Ellcrys
Summary: In which Phoenix is having a little trouble concentrating on a poker game thanks to the man underneath the table.


**Disclaimer:** Sorry, still not my characters or copyright. I'm just making them... happy? :D

**Notes:** For the kink meme. Requester wanted Edgeworth under the poker table while Phoenix is playing, if you know what I mean.

**Warnings:** Not terribly explicit male/male sex, but still not what I'd call worksafe.

* * *

**Bad Luck Charm**

Usually, if the pianist wasn't at the piano, he was at the card table, where he did considerably better work than the piano. So although he could usually be found dinking around at the keyboard when there was no challenger, it wasn't particularly strange that on a slow afternoon, he might be found seated on his usual side of said table, sprawled lazily across the chair, his chin tilted up so his head could rest on the back, eyes closed, jaw slightly slack, his hands resting on his thighs under the table. That was the picture he likely presented to anyone who took a quick glance through that little window at the side, anyhow. If he happened to be catching a nap, no one cared so much.

Unless, of course, an opponent should come along - and unfortunately, that was the case today. His eyes flew open and he sat upright abruptly, placing his hands atop the table, at the sound of the door opening and Ms. Orly's heavily accented voice. "You are having good nap?" the young woman asked, tailed by a man in a pinstripe suit, who was smirking at the sight. "Boss is not paying you to sleep, but to play, nyet?"

Phoenix shrugged, trying to ignore the pounding in his chest, and the abrupt lack of motion between his legs. He wished he could tell himself it was _her_ who had bad timing; experience told him it was his own bad luck. "No one's been down here for the last couple of hours," he lied, "so I don't see where the problem is."

"Was no problem, but now opponent has come," Olga stated. "Is very interested in trying to break your winning streak."

"Aren't they all? Heh, bring it on." Phoenix forced a smile at the man. "And you are...?"

"Thomas Marks," said the smirking man, who Phoenix guessed was probably about seven years his junior. "I've been playing poker professionally in Vegas for the last three years. Then one of my opponents, the only one who's ever managed to best me at the table, tried foolishly to console me in my loss by telling me that only one person had ever won against him... I vowed that the next time I came out to the West Coast, I would seek you out, Mr. Wright. By defeating you, I will prove that I'm better than that fool!"

"...Reminds me of someone I used to know," Phoenix mused. "You don't carry a whip, do you?" The nearly silent laugh under the table was certainly audible only to him - and it probably wasn't even that it was _audible_ to him, but the puff of breath was blowing on a very sensitive area of skin at the moment. So much for humor lightening the situation...

Marks showed no sign that he'd noticed anything amiss, however. "...A whip?"

"Never mind... have a seat," Phoenix invited him. He just really, really hoped the man didn't have a tendancy to stretch his legs out too far in front of him. "Let's see..." The chips were still piled up from the last game he'd played, fairly early that morning, and he started dividing them up. "You know we don't play for money here - we'd get shut down in a heartbeat if that was how it worked."

"Of course." Marks was still smirking. "I play only to restore my reputation."

"All right, just making sure you knew." Phoenix pushed half the chips across the table. "The little ones are worth a thousand points - or dollars, however you want to think of it - and the big ones are worth a hundred."

"Isn't that backwards?"

"Nope, that's how we play it here." Phoenix was pleased with this idea - it threw his opponents a little off before the game had even begun, and sometimes had the added bonus of making them think he was some kind of hack.

It really didn't matter if he lost the first couple of hands, to be honest. The usual rule was five hands, since anyone could just be unlucky a couple of times, but the real reason behind that rule was so that he could feel out his opponent, figure out the little habits that gave them away. It was a lot easier when Trucy was there, but it was really, really a good thing she wasn't there today... She knew _his_ nervous habits too, and he was sure he was _radiating_ them.

Marks had noticed, obviously. "Are you sure you're awake enough to play, Wright?" he inquired with a raised eyebrow. "You look a little uncomfortable. And it wouldn't be any sort of accomplishment to beat you when you're not at your best."

"Oh, I'm awake," Phoenix assured him. In fact, the adrenaline rush was making him feel twitchy, now that he had no outlet. "Let's get started..." he stated, rearranging his cards in his hand and pushing a few chips to the center of the table. "...I'll start with two hundred."

"I'll raise two hundred," said Marks, and did likewise.

Phoenix reciprocated, and watched the man thoughtfully as he chose a card to discard, and was dealt one in return. He did have a pretty good poker face, Phoenix thought to himself as he discarded two of his own, and Olga dealt him...

Then there were _fingers_ on his bare skin under the table, and he nearly dropped his cards altogether.

Across the table, Marks looked suspicious. As well he should, Phoenix thought - he wasn't quite sure what his face had given away, but no doubt it was obvious _something_ unusual had happened. Phoenix licked his lips and looked at his cards. Might as well use that to his advantage, he thought. "Hmm... I'll raise three hundred," he stated, and pushed a few more chips to the center of the table.

Marks looked even more suspicious now. "I'll see that, and raise another three hundred."

Nuts. Well, what could he have expected from a Vegas professional? And this too would be a learning experience. Phoenix never took his eyes off the man as he laid his cards on the table. "I fold." Just as he'd expected, Marks's expression didn't change as he set down his own hand - which was indeed better than Phoenix's, all he'd had was a pair of sixes - and pulled the chips towards himself.

Phoenix's probably did, though, because he could feel warm breath on his cock again. And then, it was a struggle not to jump when he felt the unmistakable light touch of a tongue curling around the tip. Oh for crying out loud... not **now**.

His mental reprimand was unheard, however, and as Olga retrieved their cards and began to deal from the blue deck, wet warmth closed around him entirely. His sharp indrawn breath made Marks peer at him curiously, but Phoenix pretended nothing at all had happened, and picked up his cards, ignoring the fingers playing around the base of his shaft, and trying to actually see what his hand was through his suddenly blurry vision. If he couldn't tell hearts from diamonds, this wasn't going to work very well...

Okay, the four red cards _were_ all hearts. That was a lucky break, and when Marks bet five hundred, he matched it without hesitation. No raising, though, not until after he'd gotten that new card. Possibly the wideness of his eyes - prompted by his being nearly swallowed - made Marks think it was a bluff, and the man actually _agreed_ to the thousand-point bet. His eyes narrowed a little when Phoenix revealed his hand, but that wasn't what was making Phoenix smirk. That was prompted by the little tic he'd just noticed in Marks's little finger. He was going to have to keep an eye on that... If the jerk under the table wouldn't keep distracting him. Phoenix aimed a little kick at him, which only made the mouth on him withdraw for a moment before taking him in deep again. That was _not_ what he'd been after.

Olga began to deal the next round once he'd taken his chips, and it took him a moment before he realized that he had a decent hand, thanks to his distraction - he'd shuffled the cards around into different configurations several times before he realized it wasn't far from a straight. He noticed right away, on the other hand, when the mouth on him started rising and falling rhythmically. The single card he requested didn't do him any good after all, but apparently his expression (or possibly the hissed exclamation of "Oh, _fuck!_" come to think of it) served as a bluff - Marks folded, and Phoenix got the pot again. The next win was with nothing more than two pairs, jacks high, and wriggling around to get comfortable in his chair again after retrieving the pile of chips was a good way of masking the fact that he was trying very, very hard not to thrust into that slippery heat, and failing somewhat.

Phoenix was aware, vaguely, of that tic in Marks's little finger, when his eyes could focus all the way across the table, which wasn't often. And this was the last hand. Phoenix steeled himself, schooling his expression. Or trying - he wasn't sure how well it was working, especially now that there was a hand curled around him as well as the mouth, moving up and down... Phoenix took a deep breath as he rearranged the cards in his hand.

"This is it, eh, Wright?" Phoenix was actually momentarily startled to hear an unfamiliar voice above the rushing of blood in his ears, and Marks was smirking at him across the table. "If I win, I win. If I lose, I lose. Unless I bet it all, I can't come out on top."

Phoenix really wished he hadn't used that phrasing. Any part of it. "That's right," he managed.

"I don't know what you're playing at," Marks began thoughtfully, tugging two cards from his hand. There were no words for what a relief that was, Phoenix thought. "But that's fine - now it all comes down to our skill at choosing the right cards, and then our respective luck, rather than any sort of bluffing. ...I'll take two."

Phoenix had never been able to figure out if he was incredibly lucky or incredibly unlucky. A combination of both, perhaps, and they seemed to complement each other every time they surfaced. Was his luck so far bad for having an opponent walk in while Miles was under the table? Or was it good for the fact that he was winning regardless?

He was still shifting the cards from one hand to the other, trying to look for patterns and not seeing anything due to his concentration being entirely elsewhere. He swallowed hard - this was almost certainly bad luck, he'd decided - and took three cards from his own hand, tossing them on the pile. At the very worst, he would still have a pair of fours, and there was really nothing else he could work with given the cards he'd been dealt. At least, he didn't think there was, but it was hard to think when he was on the verge of-

"Ohhh!" His groan startled both Marks and Olga, who both looked at him very strangely. Beneath the table, he felt lips purse around him to swallow, and slowly withdraw. "Er..." Phoenix began, trying to think of a way to explain that sudden outburst.

"Throw away the wrong card, Mr. Wright?" asked Marks with a grin.

"..." Now that Phoenix thought about it, if he'd discarded the four of clubs instead of the three and five of diamonds, he might have been in better position. "...It happens," he said, trying to sound casual, but he felt rather shaky.

Of course Marks thought he knew why. "And so your long string of victories comes to a close, Mr. Wright," he stated, laying his cards out on the table. "Full house. And what do you have?"

Actually, Phoenix hadn't picked up the three new cards yet, but given that Marks had a full house, things didn't look good. And in his dizzy, post-orgasmic haze, he observed right away that only one of his new cards was a four...

...It took him a moment longer before he realized that one of the others was a joker.

Now that he wasn't thoroughly distracted, it was simple for him to keep a straight face as he laid down his hand for Marks to see. Until he saw the look on Marks's face, and couldn't help smirking back at the man. "Fooled you, didn't I?"

Marks was staring in disbelief. "Yes... Yes, I was utterly and completely taken in. Clearly I didn't know what I was getting myself into," he admitted, and peered at Phoenix. "I've never before met a player whose idea of a poker face was to make ridiculous faces at me nonstop - for whom it actually _worked_."

"Heh, that's me - one of a kind."

"You play a good game, Mr. Wright," said Marks, rising to offer his hand across the table. "Perhaps I'll return to face you again when I've gained some experience."

"Sounds great." Phoenix would have to really stretch to reach the man's hand without standing up, but... well, he could hardly stand up in the state he was in. Zip me up already, you bastard, he mentally told the man beneath the table. Sadly, he'd never displayed any signs of psychic ability, even after sitting through that training course with Maya; nothing happened. Finally he just leaned forward a little, and shook Marks's fingertips. "I look forward to it." Marks seemed to be a little puzzled by this, but he said nothing about it, and Olga Showed him out.

Once they'd gone, Phoenix was technically free to zip up himself, or push himself back from the table and get up, or whatever he liked... but first, he felt it was necessary to aim a couple more kicks at Miles. He was rewarded by a muffled curse, seeing as he hadn't kicked too hard. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Phoenix asked with a laugh, zipping up at last and pushing the chair back. "Couldn't you wait ten minutes? I mean I know I'm irresistable and everything, but I was kind of busy."

"Me? What about you?" Miles demanded, crawling out and indignantly brushing off his dusty knees.

Phoenix was genuinely puzzled. "Wait, what _about_ me?"

"How could you win despite that?" Miles grumbled. "As if what I was doing wasn't distracting you in the slightest, as if you weren't at all interested in what I was doing..." He honestly looked self-conscious, which Phoenix thought was cute. "...Have I lost my touch?"

"Hey - that's the risk you take when you decide to do that kind of thing while I'm on the clock," Phoenix told him. "You know the job has to come first, so I was doing my best to concentrate on the game. ...What were you trying to do, anyway? Make me lose my perfect record?"

"Perfect records aren't everything," Miles murmured, sitting down in one of the spare chairs, still trying to brush the dust off his knees. "It was you who reminded me of that, many years ago."

Phoenix paused, then discovered he couldn't help but smile. "I guess you've got a point there." Settling more comfortably in his chair, he watched in amusement as Miles tried to get the grey smudges off his pants. "You just can't help yourself around me, can you? Even crawling around on a dirty floor..."

"Seeing as this is a restaurant, I'd thought they might at least clean the place now and then."

"Nah, down here, they don't even knock down the spiderwebs unless the spiders are bigger than a quarter," Phoenix told him. "The grubby, dilapidated look is part of the Hydeout's charm."

Miles aimed one of those glares of his in Phoenix's direction. "How could 'grubby and dilapidated' be charming?"

"Think of it as the interior decorating equivalent of an old hoodie and pair of jeans on someone who hasn't shaved for a couple days," Phoenix suggested. "You seem to _find_ that charming enough to crawl around on a dirty floor. You never blew me under the desk at my office. Or under..." That gave him an idea. "Say, Miles... there's another day of trial for you tomorrow, right?"

Miles looked uncertain as to whether he should answer this honestly. "...Yes..."

"Does the prosecution's bench have as much room under it as the defense's? I recall hiding under the defense bench once, back in the day. And since you said yourself that perfect records are meaningless now, I wonder if _you_ could win while-"

"O-Objection!" 


End file.
